Grace
by illuminatachime
Summary: One night, Dean wakes up from a dreadful nightmare about Jo. He hates to realize that she is, most likely, in Hell, but it sparks a fire within him and Dean becomes obsessed; determined to rescue her. He's aware of the sacrifices he must make, that he's risking Sam and Castiel, too. But, he knows more than anything, Jo's worth it. And he's going to get her out. No matter what.
1. Nightmares and Biggest Regrets

**Author's Note:** Okay, well, I know I should be working on my other fics, but a few weeks ago I just had this rush of fic ideas for my OTP, and I'm not ashamed. I've been thinking of this one the most, although I started another one first (and that one's first chapter is a LOT longer than this one). I really hope you guys enjoy this because this ship is very special to me, holds a special place in my heart, et cetera. I am in love with both of the characters involved and I hope that even if you aren't, you can still like the concept of this fic as much as I do. I don't know when I'll post the other fics, but it'll be sometime soon, I promise. Enjoy!

* * *

The first thing Dean noticed, as always, was the temperature. It felt like heat was rolling all over his body in thick, scalding waves, kneading its onyx-colored, skeletal knuckles into his flesh. He recognized this place. How could he not? How could he _ever_ forget this place, with its humidity which sucked and pulled at him, its razor-sharp teeth that consistently, endlessly tore at him?

This was the place of hellhounds. This was the place of the Devil.

This was Hell.

In all its bruising, God-awful glory. Hell. At its finest, at its worst; it bore down on him and licked at him, taunting him from his hair to his toenails with a fiery demand for acceptance. It told him that this was okay, but the feeling in his gut knew it wasn't, knew it never had been and never would be.

Dean remembered, oh yes. He remembered this feeling. Forty years' worth of it, so long ago that it felt like a lifetime, but not long enough that he'd stopped being terrified. He was _always_ terrified, no matter where he went or what he did. Imagine that; Dean Winchester, apparently the greatest hunter, apparently fearless…being afraid.

But anyone would be afraid, he knew. Anyone but Lucifer himself.

And it seemed, since Dean was Michael's vessel…that Lucifer had a particular amount of torment set for Dean's soul. Call it brotherly love.

But he wasn't being tortured or taunted, no, not like in all the other nightmares. This one was new. This one felt, if possible, more personal than the other thousands of night terrors. He wasn't waiting for someone to hurt him, someone to rip his flesh from his limbs and then pack it all on for the next day…

No, he was waiting for it to happen to someone else.

He was standing there, itching, in front of _the rack._ The rack he'd been tortured on. The rack he'd tortured others on. It was a horrible thing, something that twisted him and killed him a little more each and every day: that Dean Winchester, instead of saving everybody, had saved only himself and subjected others to turmoil. It was sharp like knives and cunning like swords, crept up on him in the middle of the day, when he'd be eating lunch with Sammy and giving his little brother shit about eating salad…every time he smiled, he remembered everything awful. Like his subconscious knew that even though he wanted to be happy, he didn't deserve to be.

And he was waiting.

Dean's first, natural instinct was to flee. Anyone with enough sense to run when they realized they weren't on the torture list, not today, would flee. They wouldn't wait, not like he was doing now. He couldn't help it; he'd lost the use of his legs.

His second instinct – the one he acknowledged and listened to – was to call out. His lips formed the words, praying for an answer. _Sam,_ he called. _Cas._

But if they were there, they didn't respond. He didn't know if they would or wouldn't, and wasn't sure whether to believe that they even _could_ reply, if they were there.

He hoped they weren't.

So his body, like seasons changing, moved to instinct number three: kill whatever son of a bitch was keeping him here, and maybe save a few poor, unfortunate souls in pain and in need. His trademark smirk, the smirk that he'd fashioned as a kid to prove to people _outside_ that he was fearless, reckless, in control…it appeared on his face, as had become habit, and he turned around.

Well, at least, he _tried_ to turn around. The whole body-suddenly-made-of-stone thing was throwing him off a little, and he couldn't exactly figure out how to get rid of it. The crown of thorns that was seemingly embedded into his skull dug its sinful little pokey things into his head, deep into his brain, and he flinched, twitched, cried out a little.

His vision went out and came back for a second, and he bunched up his muscles, like a wolf raising its hackles, and his toes curled into the dirty, decaying ground. He didn't want to think about what he was standing on, what had stood there before him…

And suddenly, he didn't have to anymore. Suddenly, he was staring at something so horrific, something he had never imagined, something he still couldn't believe even as it happened before his own eyes…

They slapped her on the rack and he remembered how terrible it felt, like yesterday, or as if it was really, actually happening to him. He remembered the rough surface of the metal, perhaps cast-iron, that scalded his skin and branded him in a lattice pattern, only to be healed and re-applied the next time. He remembered how the metal was scorching, searing hot; so heated that it felt like ice.

Flames pushed at his back, pushed him closer to her. He could hear her now, over the roar of the damned souls around him. His ears were set to her frequency, and soon, she was _all_ he could hear.

She was whimpering, shaking. Her hands were moving so fast that they looked to have been a smudged pencil sketch. She wailed and begged for them to leave her alone, just for today, that they could do double tomorrow if they just let her be today. She pleaded with them, the unseen monsters that took pleasure in hurting her over and over again. It was a position that Dean had been in, once. Both positions, really.

She was naked. They'd stripped her clothes like they'd stripped his, like they stripped everybody's. Of course, in Hell, you're not aware of other people's nudity like you would be on Earth. It's accepted, like wearing clothes, and honestly? You've got more to be worried about.

Like torture.

The whip was raised; he could see it through all the white-colored steam and the charcoal-colored smoke. Such things hung in a smog, all around this place. Made it even harder to breathe than the saturated air or the gasping pain that affects you so harshly. Dean choked out a sob, like he might choke on this air. That sob in itself matched every appeal he'd ever cried out to the torturers; the judges, the juries, and the executioners. He, of course, knew her pain.

And then it hit him: she'd been dead a lot longer than he'd been dead when he was here. He knew the exact date she had died, and was afraid to try and calculate the math. He had been here for forty years…and she'd been here a lot longer.

His rage welled up and spilled over, and he started screaming bloody murder at the same time her desperate, whispered pleas rose to piercing, agonizing howls. The whip cracked relentlessly at her back, and her bindings were tightened every time she pulled at them. She bled from all over, caterwauling.

He remembered the shame and anguish and hate that had been lashed into him with every thrust of the whip, and knew that she was being dealt the same horrors. She didn't deserve that; damn, she didn't deserve that.

He called her name, over and over again; bellowed it, hollered it, until the walls started to melt around him and his face started to ooze. He scratched and clawed at himself, feeling his flesh come right off, exposing his blood and organs. He should've known something was off, because he was clothed, whereas he wasn't usually when he was in this place.

His boots dug into the rot underneath him, and her shrieks rattled his brains and his bones and he felt like blowing up the world, shooting everyone and everything…but at the same time, he was aware that he was _leaving._ Being teleported, summoned, grabbed by an angel…who knew. And as he was being pulled away, Dean could've sworn that he heard her start screaming his name. _Jo,_ he tried to call back to her. _Jo._

His eyes opened.

And he was in bed.

Dean frowned, sitting up immediately and allowing himself to thrash around in the darkness, trying to find a lamp or a light switch. His fingers found purchase against a lamp shade and he felt around until something clicked and light filled the room.

It was a hotel room; and he recalled that he was staying here with Sam. They had been working a case on vampires and were between jobs. Yeah, he remembered.

It was a dream, then. He could recognize it as a nightmare on a conscious level, now.

This sated his fear, at first. He rubbed at his eyes for a long time, wiping the wetness from them that he couldn't quite admit were tears, even to himself. He remembered his father telling him _boys don't cry_ a few times, and then they both grew out of that stage when Sam started crying more often.

Okay, so yeah, he was crying. Post-traumatic stress disorder does that to a person. He scrubbed at his face a litter longer and then stood up, trying not to get caught in the sweat-soaked sheets of the lumpy motel bed that he'd been sleeping on. He turned to check the other bed, making sure Sam was still asleep, but saw that his brother was gone instead.

His eyes flicked to the clock and it said it was five AM, and any suspicion he had dropped tremendously. Sam was probably out getting them breakfast.

_Good, _Dean thought to himself. _I don't want to have to explain that to him if I don't have to._ He scratched the back of his head and decided he should take a shower. A long, cold shower.

He entered the small, shitty bathroom next to his bed and undressed, taking his damn time because it felt like his entire body was in agony. He wasn't surprised.

In the shower, he washed himself completely, taking care to get the really gritty-feeling parts of himself that he usually ignored when he was on the hunt (sometimes all he had time to wash were the bare necessities). Then, he stood for what felt like hours, just staring at the ivory-colored plastic walls of the shower. Dean felt little droplets of water trickling around his scalp, then running down his forehead to his lips, before he spat to avoid what might've been recycled pee getting swallowed.

And then the thought hit him: What if it wasn't just a dream? …What if he was having one of those weird vision-y dreams that Sam had thoroughly experienced?

A primal shudder rose and grabbed Dean by the spine, shaking him roughly, vehemently. This couldn't have been just a normal nightmare. He'd never had it before. He'd never even considered that she might've gone to Hell, of all places.

Because fuck, she didn't deserve it. Not her. Not there.

She deserved _better._

He almost fell as he jumped out of the shower, almost forgetting to turn it off in his haste. Did it matter? No. But it would raise the bill, so yes. He didn't want any shit from Sam about it.

He was positive she was in Hell, now. And it was driving him crazy that he didn't know what to do about it. That he _couldn't_ do anything about it. He dressed in a hurry.

Dean remembered how it felt to be mauled by a hellhound. How it felt to wake up in Hell. How the feelings of all the different types of torture were forever burned into his memory, haunting him even when he was happy and content. Now, he was absolutely terrified; outraged and trying to hold himself together.

But it was difficult, and he was losing his mind quicker than he was losing hope, so Dean did the only thing he could do.

"Cas," he spoke, tone quiet and controlled. "Get your angelic ass here, right now. Please."

It wasn't more than a minute before the angel appeared in front of Dean, his eyes open and unblinking as he stared at the human, who sat on the edge of the bed with a weary expression.

"Dean," said the angel Castiel, moving closer to the person he once fished out of Hell. "What do you need?"

_Jo, _he thought.

Dean was sitting on his hands, trying to stop them shaking. He was terrified, of course he was terrified. He cleared his throat and opened his mouth to speak, but no sound came. Swallowing hard, he tried again, and this time, he was able to say, "I need some answers."

The angel nodded slowly, an estranged look on his face. "You may ask me your questions," he told Dean.

Dean gestured for Castiel to sit, and Castiel pulled up a chair from the small card table that was part of the room so that they were sitting face to face. "Cas," Dean warned. "I _know_ I've told you about personal space."

"…Right," said Cas. "Sorry." He scooted his chair back about a foot. "Is this better?"

"Yeah." Dean sniffed, hoping his eyes weren't noticeably red. He didn't think he'd cried for that long. He could probably chalk it up to sneezing or something if Cas asked. "Uh," he began, trying not to fidget, "I wanted to ask you about…Hell."

"I don't understand what you mean," Castiel said briefly. "You've been there, Dean."

"No. I want to know how you pulled me out. You know? You gripped me tight, raised me from perdition…"

Castiel sighed, something rare. "Well, the others and I found out you were there and laid siege to rescue you. It was just like bending down and taking hold of you."

Dean nodded, accepting the answer although it wasn't what he was looking for. "Yes, and then when Sam ended the Apocalypse, Crowley changed Hell. You pulled Sam from the pit, and I was wondering…had anything changed?"

"You mean to ask if Sam went through the same punishment as you," Castiel wondered, a light line forming between his eyebrows. "I suppose he did. There's the queue of souls in line, and Sam was being tortured, so I would assume that while Hell itself had changed, the punishments had not."

Dean mulled over bringing up the whole you-went-power-crazy-and-absorbed-all-of-the-souls-in-Purgatory thing; decided against it. It'd been years since he'd first met Cas, but the memories were burned into him like they were just yesterday, but a lifetime ago…just like the memories of Hell.

"You pulled Sam and me out of perdition," Dean stated, allowing himself to fidget, his hands having come out from under himself while he was speaking. "Thank you for that. It was difficult, during and after, I imagine. Um…what would've happened if I hadn't broken the first Seal?"

"Nothing," Castiel shrugged. "The Apocalypse wouldn't have been set into motion."

"Do the Seals still exist?"

"They always have and always will," Castiel replied. "They are eternal, like most of the things that are related to Heaven and Hell."

"Alright…so if, say, someone hadn't broken the Seals and needed _bad_ to be grabbed out of perdition…" Dean's voice trailed off, and he grimaced, hoping Castiel wouldn't catch on until he needed him to.

Castiel's face remained blank, but that didn't mean he was clueless. "Why did you call me here, Dean? What's the reason behind all these questions?"

Dean flinched. Ah, yes. The suspicion had already set in. What could he say to Castiel, this angel who had probably gone to great lengths and risks to rip even one soul out of Hell? What could he say to make Castiel realize that this was a grave necessity; something Dean so desperately and hopelessly needed?

He swallowed again, staring at the angel and hoping Cas would understand without him having to speak. When it became apparent that Cas was going to remain in the dark until Dean told him, Dean broke eye contact, looking down and away. He wet his lips, sighing heavily, and rubbed a hand on his leg, where a mosquito had bitten him the other night.

"Cas," he began, avoiding looking at the angel, whose intense gaze he could feel on him, boring through him like the fires of Hell itself.

Then the idea came to him, and it was a wretched, rotten idea, to bargain with something so priceless. But what he was bargaining _for_ was priceless as well, and he felt that it might even be worth more than the thing he was about to offer to Cas.

"You tell me that I should have _faith,_ right?" Dean said suddenly, blurting it out with abandon. He figured it'd be better not to delay. Cas's eyebrows raised a fraction in surprise, and his lips parted slightly as he too searched for something to say.

Then, he replied, "Yes, Dean." The furrow in his brow deepened almost exponentially as his intrigue for what Dean was planning took over him. It was a strange look to see on Castiel's usually-serene face, but Dean didn't take too much surprise.

He was too busy guilt-tripping himself for the things he was about to do, and the things he had already done.

But he knew, with all his head and all his heart, that it was right. It'd be painful and exhausting and costly, but it was worth it. He hated that he couldn't do it himself, hated that he had to involve Cas after putting the angel through so much already, but it was something he had to do.

It was something he had to do.

Dean shifted his weight on the bed, staring hopefully into Castiel's pale blue eyes. This was just Castiel's vessel, a shell, but if Castiel ever took on a different body, Dean knew that it wouldn't really feel like Castiel, would it.

He remembered all he'd seen of Cas – Jimmy Novak's body, the little girl Claire's body, becoming a God with the trapped souls of Purgatory, Emanuel, the Castiel of the future…And now, he was the Winchesters' guardian. Watching over Sam and Dean, answering their prayers for him sometimes…

His voice shook as he asked the angel, "Are you willing to help me restore that faith?"

Castiel nodded slightly, and said, "Yes, Dean."

Dean took the answer gladly, nodding a little bit more than he should've, and tried to push down the giddiness that was suddenly rising within him. _Shut up, Dean,_ he thought to himself. _You don't know if this'll work or not. We don't even have a plan yet._

But he can't stop himself from thinking, _I'm coming for you, baby. I'm coming to rescue you like I should've done a long time ago. I'm so sorry, Jo. I'm so sorry it's taken me this long to realize…_

He calmed himself, telling himself not to get choked up again, not in front of Cas. His hands formed fists that he squeezed almost too tightly, digging his short fingernails into his palms. He took another shaky breath, knowing that it wouldn't be the last of this journey, this adventure, this quest, and said to Castiel, "Then there's something I need you to do for me."


	2. Pulling a Fast One on Perdition

**Author's Note:** Sorry this chapter is short, I promise the later ones will be longer :) The action's gonna start up soon, so be prepared, haha. I'm really excited for this, to be honest. Also, I'm going to post the first chapter to another Dean/Jo fic that I've written soon, so be watching!

* * *

Dean's hands were shaking, and he was in the bathroom again. He was crouched, huddled next to the toilet, as if he were going to vomit. He held his head in his hands and told himself that he was _stronger than this,_ stronger than having a panic attack in a cheapo hotel's bathroom, and yet, he was having one.

It was scary. His mind was racing, his heart was going faster, and he couldn't _do_ anything. Castiel had gone somewhere after their discussion, leaving Dean alone to wait anxiously. They'd talked a little bit more, and he'd told Cas about the dream, albeit briefly. He asked about hellhound bites and whether Cas was _sure_ they could send a person to Hell; a few more questions, and then Cas had said he needed to go somewhere.

Dean hadn't been too suspicious, but the angel was taking longer than usual to get back.

All the guilt and the chaos that was filling Dean's brain stabbed at him, giving him a tension headache. He wondered how long it'd been since he'd woken from the nightmare; how long it had been since Sam had left.

Sam, he hoped, would return soon and give him a distraction. He knew he wouldn't freak out this badly if Sam were here. He was the big brother, it was his job to be tough. And Dean was extraordinarily tough; much more than he thought.

_Why did I wait this long, why did I wait so long to try and save you,_ Dean thought over and over again. _I didn't even think. I didn't even realize that you couldn't be in Heaven. _He rubbed at his mouth, trying to ignore the way his lower lip was wobbling.

_When Sam and I talked to Ash, he said he hadn't seen you or your mom. That should've been my first clue._ His head nodded involuntarily, repeatedly, like he was agreeing to his faults. He kept thinking of different times where he should've realized, should've _seen._

For the first time in a good while, he craved alcohol. No, this wasn't his average, nightly couple-bottles-of-beer-before-I-go-to-sleep thing. This was his _crutch. _He rocked back and forth, chastising himself for acting like such a baby. What if Sam or Cas came back and saw him like this? He'd feel absolutely ridiculous.

But at the same time, it didn't matter. He just needed to be sure that he could save Jo. He needed it more than he needed a drink. There probably weren't any nearby, and he had a feeling he wouldn't really want to move anytime soon. After all, he was collapsed on the floor in a shite restroom, sobbing but not crying.

Every goddamn thing he'd done. Every single one. It made him sick. He was a louse in Valhalla, a shit stain on the underpants of the world. He rolled his eyes at the analogies, and tried to sit up straighter so he didn't feel like a crackhead cowering in the corner of a whorehouse.

A few more hours passed, and neither Sam nor Castiel returned. Dean started to get antsy. He was able to get up off of the bathroom floor, only to pace back and forth consistently, rubbing his hands together and checking the window every now and then for signs of trouble.

He wasn't going to call Sam, not yet, _don't mother your little brother, Dean, _just another hour of waiting and then he'd see. He tried to distract himself with the television set that was nailed to its station; Dean had never in fact thrown one out the window, but he knew he'd probably nail his TVs to their spots, too. If someone he knew was a little more hectic than the average bear.

Jo. Joanna Beth Harvelle. She was amongst Dean's biggest regrets. Probably his worst regret, at that. The sweet, scrawny little girl who'd punched him in the nose and held a rifle on him – when he was over a head taller than her and probably twice her weight; the girl who had proven herself time and time again to him, first with her impressive work on the murderer's ghost, then her strength when it captured her. Her willingness to continue the job so that people could live. It was what drove Dean, too. When she got kidnapped by Meg, she hadn't swayed. She'd listened and she'd gotten angry, yes, but she'd patched Dean up all the same, even though he owed her a damn explanation. She'd never really gotten one.

After that, she'd grown up in the few years they'd been apart. She'd become more quiet and reserved, but her spitfire personality still shone through when she was around him and her mom. She'd fought against the demons who weren't really demons. She'd met Cas, and been perplexed over his personality, like any sensible person would. He was an angel, for God's sake, of course she would've been curious.

And, on their _last night on earth,_ she'd shot Dean down. The memory made him smile fondly, but it was a bittersweet smile. She'd gone down fighting, against everyone's warning her to stay away from a hunter's life. She'd saved Dean from the hellhounds, but had ended up getting mauled herself.

And it was his fault.

If he'd been faster, or more clever. Maybe if he'd carried her differently. Maybe there _had_ been a different way than letting Jo and Ellen blow their bodies to bits, just to save the Winchesters.

God, he wanted to die all over again.

He remembered the trail of blood that they'd left behind as he'd carried Jo across the street and into the convenience store. She'd been bleeding so frightfully heavy, but there had to've been a way to save her. There always was. Always.

_And now, _he thought to himself when his determination rose. _Now, I'm going to save you. I can't change it. I can't redo it the right way, but I can do it now. _

After Jo and Ellen's deaths, he'd sought to kill Meg for what she'd done. She was responsible for two other hunters' deaths as well, and Dean had blamed her. Although he quit trying to kill her when she proved useful, he was still terribly hateful of the bitch. She'd killed hellhounds once, and it had made him feel weak, to know that someone as ugly as she could fight them off. He and Jo both had been killed by hellhounds. It wasn't fair. He felt like a whiny baby to put it such a way, but it was true.

_Knock, knock._

God. Finally.

Dean tried not to rush over to the door, but it unlocked and two men spilled into the room, smelling like breakfast and gas stations. Dean's eyebrows raised as Sam's eyes met his, and then he looked to Castiel. "Where've you been?" he asked, bouncing up and down irritably. He'd been left alone for too long, like a dog.

"I found Sam," Cas replied, as if it was an explanation. Sam mumbled something behind him, having walked towards the small card table. Setting down a brown paper bag and the two coffees he held, he turned to look at Dean again.

"I was doing research at the library," said the younger brother. "Took him a while to find me, I guess."

"Yeah," Dean agreed.

He rubbed his forehead, feeling his fatigue set in. Somehow, even though he'd done virtually nothing for the past ten hours, he felt like he hadn't slept in years. A random snippet of memory went rushing through his head:_ time passes differently in Hell._

Closing his eyes, he concentrated on the headache that was forming all around his head. Even though he couldn't see Sam, he could tell that Sam's eyebrows were squinched up with his head bent forward when he asked, "Dean, what's this all about?"

Dean opened his eyes and stared at his brother.

"Cas said there was something wrong," Sam elaborated, to which Dean nodded. "Well, actually, he said kind of a lot more than that but it was still very obscure," Sam added, tilting his head and squinting even more at his older brother. Cas walked over to stand by the window behind Sam, but neither of the brothers glanced at him.

"Mmgh," Dean grumbled. "I'm too tired to explain it, okay? I'm gonna catch a few hours' more sleep. It's just, uh, another job that I have to do. And I need Cas to help me."

"Help you do what?" Sam asked slowly, motioning Dean over to the table. Dean went reluctantly, but his eyes lit up when he saw Sam pull six donuts out of the bag. Most of them were pink- or white-frosted and sprinkly, and Dean grabbed the first one he saw right out of Sam's hands.

"Food," he said as he chomped into the pastry. "You'd think I hadn't eaten in years."

"We did have an early dinner yesterday," Sam replied nonchalantly, grabbing a donut of his own and gesturing for Castiel to take one as well. The three sat, two brothers noisily munching away at donuts bought from a gas station, one angel staring perplexed at his before curiously taking a small bite.

Dean rolled the mushy bits of his donut over his tongue, debating whether or not it was a good idea to take a sip of coffee when he still wanted to go to sleep. He wasn't afraid of the nightmare returning, not now, since he had a plan.

The only things he was afraid of were that he might not be allowed Jo's retrieval, or that the next dream would be worse than the last. He'd been spared the horrific sight of what could and would be done in Hell. His brow furrowed as he recalled how it felt to be stripped to the bones of his soul.

"I'm going to go to sleep," he finalized after swallowing the last bit of his breakfast. "I, uh, didn't sleep well."

Sam hurried to swallow the first bite of his second donut as he looked at his brother, his eyes going wide in exasperation. "But you didn't tell me what this job is!"

Dean looked at him. Sam was okay, today. This week. Nothing was going on in his demon-blood-slash-Lucifer's-vessel department. That was a first; at least, the first time since Dean could really remember. A long time.

He started to pace again, slowly. "I'm exhausted, Sam. Exhausted. Just…Cas?"

The angel looked up. "Yes, Dean?"

"D'you think you could fill Sam in while I get some shuteye?"

Castiel nodded, and Dean fell into his bed. Any remains of his sweat-soaked night terrors had dried up. Physically, he felt fine, and it was strange for a moment to think of how that could be when he was so tired, but then he thought of how it was his soul and his mind that were exhausted, more than just his body and muscles.

He fell asleep to Castiel beginning to explain. "Dean woke up five hours ago from a bad nightmare. He didn't tell me the exact occurrences in the dream, but he mentioned that blonde-haired woman, Joanna, and the hellhounds that killed her. He asked me if hellhound bites could send a person to Hell, and then he asked me if that's where Joanna's soul and the rest of your souls were intended to go when Joanna and Ellen died. I answered 'probably' to both, and Dean got very sad. He said that he's going to find whoever he can who he thinks can help him: Crowley, my Father, anyone."

* * *

"Dean, this is a bad idea!" Sam hissed, looking exasperated. It was later that night, perhaps around eight o'clock, and Castiel had disappeared with a promise to return in the morning. Dean figured he was out getting information or something. As soon as Dean had woken up, about an hour before, Sam had jumped down his throat about the plan.

Dean turned to Sam, his voice desperate. "You ever heard of _necessary evil?"_

"Of course I have! But what's dead should stay dead, and I knowyou think so, too! You've_ said_ it, Dean-" The younger Winchester's voice hitched and cut off as his brother grabbed him by the shirt. Dean gripped Sam's shirt so tightly that there would certainly be wrinkles afterward, but Sam knew that now wasn't the time to fuss over that.

"Look me in the eye and tell me you wouldn't do the same thing for Jess," Dean said, his voice low and gruff. "Sammy, I _know_ it's God-awful. I know it's _wrong._ But look me in the eye and say you wouldn't make deals with the Devil and go to Hell and back for Jess."

"Dean, it's been too long a time for that," Sam said, sighing heavily. He wiped his hair out of his eyes, and with a shaky voice said, "I would do it, if I could. I would've done it then and I'd do it now, but...it's been years, Dean. Jess is in Heaven."

Dean inhaled roughly; something that Sam knew was a masked sob. "Yeah, well, Jo isn't," Dean said after a moment, fighting to control himself in front of his punk little brother. "She's in Hell, Sam, and of all people, she doesn't deserve that."

Tilting his head to the side, Sam watched Dean's face as it contorted, expressing multiple emotions at once: anger, grief, frustration, despondence, hatred, disbelief, despair, longing, guilt. It was all there, open like a book. Lord knew that didn't happen too often, not for Dean.

Slowly, Sam began to nod, his eyes not leaving his brother's face. "This is a bad idea, Dean. You know the risks."

Dean nodded, avoiding his brother's eyes as he let Sam go. Licking his lower lip, turned around and let his fingers find the gun that was placed brazenly on his bed. _Should clean it,_ he thought.

"It's…_foolish_ of you to even consider that things will go your way," Sam continued, trailing a little after Dean. But Sam also knew that his brother wouldn't give up, wouldn't rest until Jo was safe in his arms. Sam knew what that kind of love felt like; what it could do to a human being. Sam remembered Castiel explaining that Dean had described this mission as 'pulling a fast one on Perdition.'

"I know, Sam," Dean replied tiredly. His shoulders were hunched but not in defeat, and when Dean turned his head to look to the side, Sam saw that his jaw was set in defiance. When Dean got determined, he wouldn't quit. This was a stupid enough idea that Sam could barely believe Dean was the one who came up with it; Sam felt as if it were only he himself who could think up such a thing, and have Dean chew him out for it later, after the plan failed. Dean didn't make these kinds of mistakes. Not without a damn good hope for success. And that was reason enough. _I'd follow you into Hell,_ Sam thought, pursing his lips.

So Sam nodded, and said, "What can I do to help?"


	3. Fire and Brimstone

**Author's Note: **Well, here's the third chapter! I hope you enjoy it as much as I did writing it. :) Reviews are very welcome!

* * *

**TRIGGER WARNING: blood, gore, violence, fire.**

* * *

"What about her body, Dean," Sam murmured at one point, as they were getting ready to check out of their hotel room. "Her and Ellen's bodies…were definitely blown to bits. You had a body to come back to, but she…"

"I've thought about it," Dean replied, cutting Sam off. He hid his face from his brother, turning his body while he grabbed for an invisible object. He had thought about it; Jo's body. Lots of times. Many different ways. "We'd have to have a miracle to get her body back," he added. "A real miracle."

Sam raised an eyebrow, crossing his arms and shifting his weight to the left. "What are you talking about?"

The older Winchester zipped his duffel bag and slung it over his shoulder, turning towards the door. "I'm going to make a deal, Sam."

Sam twitched. "What?" he said, his voice raised. "Dean—"

"What, Sam?" Dean snarled, rounding on his brother. "A crossroads demon is my _last _choice. I'm going to make a deal with God."

"You—you _know_ how crazy you sound, right? Dean, you're going insane."

"I am going insane!" Dean wet his lips, glaring at his brother. His grip on the duffel's strap was strained, and he said in a calmer voice, "Every minute I waste debating whether to make a deal with God or a crossroads demon, Jo's getting tortured. I told you already, you can stay out of this if you want, but this is something that _I have_ to do."

"I know," Sam told him, nodding. "But our family making deals with anyone has never gone well."

"Like I said, I know the risks." Dean turned around again, stalking towards the door. "Castiel, you comin'?" he called towards the bathroom. He had no idea what the hell Cas was doing in there, but it didn't really matter. The angel appeared, looking expectant, and Dean nodded. "Let's go, then."

They piled into the Impala, Winchesters in front and angel in back, and Dean drove silently, aimlessly, for about fifteen miles before he looked in his rearview mirror at Castiel. "I need you to contact God, Cas," he said.

"Alright. What do I tell him?" asked Castiel in a gruff voice.

"I imagine if you ask him for Jo's body, he'll give it to you," Dean said tiredly. "Just don't mention me." The angel was silent for a moment, and Dean checked the rearview mirror, staring at Cas's ponderous face. "What is it?" he said, a little too tensely.

"I just remember Anna telling me that she got her vessel's body back after it was destroyed by calling in a few favors," Castiel replied. "I imagine that I could do the same for Jo's body."

"Are you saying that we wouldn't have to contact God?" Sam said, turning in the front seat to look over his shoulder at Castiel. The angel nodded, shrugging a little. "What have you done for somebody to owe you a favor?"

"Stuff," answered Cas, shrugging again. His response merited a raised eyebrow from Dean in the mirror, and Castiel tilted his head to the side, squinting a little at the older Winchester, and said, "_Things."_

The corners of Dean's mouth turned down as he shook his head and looked out the window, watching a gas station pass by before the town turned into country. He wasn't sure where they were going, yet; maybe Duluth, Montana, where Jo had died, or Nebraska, where she'd lived, for sentiment. Right now he just wanted to put pressure on the gas pedal and think things through with just Sam and Cas in the car; with them present, he wouldn't lose his cool like last time. This time, he wouldn't end up collapsed against a dirty toilet in some run-down motel in Utah.

"Who do you need to speak to, to do that?" Dean asked. He kept his eyes on the road; his fingers itched to turn some AC/DC on and all the way up, but it wouldn't help. The memory of Jo's pale, cold, ghostly hand touching his face before she disappeared was haunting him right that moment, and he could almost feel it as if it were happening then and there.

Without answering, the angel disappeared from the backseat, and Sam wordlessly dug his phone out of his jacket pocket, flipping it open and turning it on. "He'll call us when he's done," he said simply, as if Dean didn't know. Dean nodded once, and Sam continued, "Today I was researching local myths and disappearances, and what sounds like a pack of vampires seems to be in the next town over, a place called Lake Shore, and it sounds kinda serious. Fresh, but serious."

"Yeah. 'Course it's serious, Sam, there're vampires," Dean said, sounding uninterested. "When we get Jo resurrected and safe and sound, we'll go back and take care of it, okay?"

"She'd want to help," Sam said carefully, eyeing his brother. "I know the last thing you want is for her to return to a hunter's life, but…"

"It's my fault, Sammy," Dean grumbled. "At this point, I'd let her tie me up and torture me herself if she asked. I owe it to her."

"It's not your fault," Sam argued, looking shocked. Dean knew he wouldn't have understood. "Dean, Jo was going to do it no matter if you existed or not. You said it yourself. It can't be blamed on anyone that she was there. It was her choice to turn back for you."

"She didn't deserve it," Dean said, as if it would make Sam see. "She didn't deserve a hunter's life. She deserved to go to school and be loved and cared for and happy and she deserved more than someone like me and the life I live but for some reason I'm still desperate to get her back and I don't—"

His breath hitched off as he suddenly stepped on the brakes, allowing a deer to scurry past the Impala's front end just in the nick of time. Clearing his throat, he looked at his brother in the darkness, and gave a soft sigh.

"She deserved better," he told Sam. "So do you."

Sam turned his head away, staring out at the dark roads. It was almost ten o'clock. Shaking his head slowly, he said, "Listen, Dean…you can't take care of everybody. Sometimes people don't always make the right choices, or the choices you want them to make, but you have to consider that – no matter how tough those choices end up making their lives, and how severely it damages them – that they chose what was right for them, and that they're happy. Not always, but some of the time. And that's what counts. I'm not trying to get all cheesy with you, but…Jo wanted this life, and she took it. She didn't listen to anyone, not even you or her mom. It was rough, but it was worth it. Saving people."

Dean bit his lip, pressing down on the gas pedal as they passed a sign that informed them that they were leaving the county. Sam was silent because Dean was silent, and Dean thought that his little brother might think his point had come across. Dean wasn't sure if it had or not.

As they passed another county sign, Dean looked out of his window at the stars, slowing down a little so he could focus on the surrounding area. The trees were misty even in the darkness, and the Impala's headlights lit up the fog. Dean wrinkled his nose and sniffed, wondering how long it had been since Castiel had vanished.

The country spread out before him, his brother, and his car, and the night, which he'd never been afraid of, welcomed him with its cool breezes, deer watching from the ditches, starstruck by the motion and light of the vehicle.

He hated asking Cas to pull another soul out of Hell, especially since the one in question didn't have a body to come back to. Timing was everything right now, Dean knew. Relying on Castiel to carry out a personal mission felt wrong, but Dean was used to using and hurting people. All he wanted was to acquire Jo's body and then her soul, and it was all up to Castiel pleading with his Father.

"I lied to Cas," Dean murmured, more to himself than Sam, but the younger Winchester responded anyway.

"What do you mean?" Sam asked, turning slowly towards Dean, obviously coming out of a deep train of thought.

Dean lifted a shoulder in a half-shrug, raised his hand to rub at his lower lip, before saying, "I told him if he did this, it'd restore my faith. My hope in the world, all that."

Sam snorted mirthlessly. "I _know_ that won't happen, Dean. And it's been a long time since Castiel was innocent or naïve. I'll bet he knows, too."

Accepting this information, Dean leaned his head to the side, feeling weary of the situation already. "That makes it worse, some ways."

"No, it doesn't," Sam told him. "It means he thinks of you as a friend."

* * *

They rolled to a stop in front of _Dewie's Bar_ in Aspen, Colorado, around three o'clock in the morning. Dean jingled the keys to the Impala in his hand as he stretched outside the car. Ignoring Sam's discouraging remarks about going to a bar at this hour, he swallowed a comeback about Sam's own drinking problem. They were hunters, it was what they did. It didn't matter if it drowned their grief and guilt and trauma all the way – just as long as they went into a stupor for a little while, smudging out the rest of the world under a nice, bronze-colored, bitter-tasting haze.

Sam ordered a beer, watching his brother with worried eyes as Dean finished bottle after bottle, raising his finger every time for more. Even though he knew Castiel wouldn't send a text, he kept checking his phone, wishing that the angel would reappear so Dean had something to focus on. Judging from the look on his brother's face, Sam guessed that Dean was thinking of the Roadhouse, and Jo and Ellen and Ash; their family that had nothing to do with blood relations but still came to a screeching halt with that same blood, which now bathed and enveloped the hands of the Winchesters. Dean blamed himself for all of it, Sam knew.

Sam had his fair share of faults and blames, just as his brother did, but for all the world he wished that Dean would see that some things _weren't_ Dean's fault. Everything Dean couldn't control, every little flaw in the plan, every twist on the path…Dean tortured himself over it tirelessly. Jo getting mauled by the Hellhound, the Roadhouse getting burnt down, Ellen's choice to stay with her daughter and therefore commit suicide…

_I love you, Dean,_ Sam thought, watchful as his brother slumped lower and lower on his bar stool. Soon he'd be hobbling off to the car and throwing Sam the keys, slurring an order to find a motel with a few cuss words mixed in. _It's not your fault. _

He took the keys wordlessly and followed his slouching, swaying brother to their car, then drove around for twenty-odd minutes, looking for a motel. He wasn't sure if Dean had fallen asleep or had passed out or was just brooding heavily, but all was quiet except for the tinkling sounds of a piano coming from the radio, which was turned down.

Humming along to the tune as if he knew the song, Sam pulled into the parking lot of some run-down motel, parked the Impala, and then walked around and opened Dean's door. Dean slumped out, waking up, and said, "Where the fuck were you?"

Sam raised his eyebrows. "I've been sitting next to you this entire time, Dean."

"Just shut up," Dean said, waving a hand and pinching the bridge of his nose. "There's acid in my stomach."

"No, there's not, you just got drunk without eating anything first and now your body's dealing with that," Sam told him, rolling his eyes. Grabbing Dean's arm, he hoisted his brother up and said, "I'm gonna get us a room, and you're going to remain silent and stand behind me, okay? We don't wanna get turned away because you had fifty beers."

"Whatever," Dean slurred, frowning. "Just as long as I get the top bunk."

"Okay," Sam said, shaking his head.

* * *

In the dream, Dean was sitting in an empty, circular room. It was dank and charcoal-colored; he sat near the center of the floor, cross-legged, as if he were meditating. His eyes were open and his hands were on his knees; it appeared he was waiting for something. Facing the opposite wall, he rolled his head to one side, and then the other.

She appeared.

He didn't jump when she materialized in front of him; instead he met her dark, brown eyes and nodded his greeting to her. Her face was pale, as it had been when she was forced to testify against him by Osiris, and she was naked; gritty, as if she'd just been taken off the rack. This idea made him falter: she probably _had_ just been taken off the rack.

"Dean," she said, as if it were a warning. "We have to go."

"Take your time," he said, then as an afterthought: "No, don't." Shaking his head, he said, "I can't choose."

"I understand," she told him, nodding and placing her hands on her knees; mimicking his position. "But you have to. Heaven or Hell, Dean?"

"Can I choose both?" he asked, laughing a little and rolling his head around again. She stared at him with blank eyes. "There's things for me in both places."

"What's for you in Heaven?" she asked, but it wasn't a bitter question. "What's for you in Hell?"

"In Heaven, there's God. And I can make deals with God. In Hell, there's you."

"Is the only reason you want to go to Heaven so you can make deals with God?" she asked sardonically. "Or do you enjoy interrogating the residents as well?"

"I'd like to go to Heaven because when I'm done, I'll be done, and it seems like a nicer place than Hell," he said quickly, shaking his head. "But I need to go there now so I can make a deal. Or two."

Rolling her eyes, Jo nodded, and suddenly, they were in a hotel room, with magazines lying on the bed and the television turned on to HBO. She cleared her throat, wiping her hands on her jeans; she was now wearing the clothes that she had died in: the light green jacket, the gray v-neck shirt. Her hair was curled slightly, and she looked embarrassed.

"What is it?" Dean asked, swallowing hard so he wouldn't react visibly to the image of her the day she'd died. At least there was no blood on her side. That would've killed him more than it had killed her.

She looked down, eyebrows rising, and laughed. "This is, uh, my Heaven. Like Ash's is the Roadhouse."

"How do you know Ash's is the Roadhouse?" Dean asked, confused. She was supposed to be in Hell and Hell alone, with no knowledge of anything other than the rack and the other souls.

She shrugged. "We're in _your_ head, Dean. I know everything you know."

"Will you know everything I know when I resurrect you?" Now it was him rubbing his sweaty palms on his jeans, afraid of the answer.

"No," she said simply. "I'm just a figment of your imagination, now. A carrier, I guess. For the thoughts you don't want to think, can't think, even in your dreams."

He nodded shyly. "Oh," he said, as if he understood; he didn't, really, but that wasn't what mattered right now. "Why's this your Heaven?" he asked, striving for a new topic. They were waiting for someone, but he couldn't remember who.

Jo chuckled. "Because this is where I was happy," she told him. "This hotel is in New Mexico. I was hunting, with my mom. She was okay with me hunting by then. She was happy with me, even. And that phone," she pointed to a shotty looking phone, black with a cord, on the side table, "is the phone that rang that night. I picked it up, and it was Bobby on the other end, saying that some angel had grabbed your ass out of Hell, and that you were alive. That night…even if I hadn't seen you…I could feel you, back on Earth. And…" Her words trailed off, and she looked at him, blinking back misty eyes and smiling.

Dean's heart felt warm for a few moments before he remembered that this was all just a dream. Jo's Heaven was probably the Roadhouse, with Ash and Ellen and Bobby and Jo's father, Bill. It made sense. He even imagined that he'd be miles away, with Sam; out of sight, out of mind for Jo.

That was okay with him. It just mattered, now, that they got down to business. Making a gruff noise, he rolled his shoulders and said, "Where's God?" Ah, that's who they were waiting for. He wondered why he'd forgotten.

"I'm right here," said a discreet-looking man with a beard and glasses. He was wearing a secondhand business suit, holding a plunger and a suitcase, and looking for all the world like he was miserable. "And I'm cranky, so hurry up and tell me what you want, Dean Winchester."

"What happened to your vessel?" Dean asked, raising his eyebrows. God didn't respond, so he went on, "I'm here to make a deal."

"That much is obvious," Jo muttered at his side. "Why _else_ would you be here?"

Dean gulped. He didn't know. He definitely wasn't going to come to Heaven when his life was over. He definitely wasn't here to take a tour because he was one of next year's freshmen.

"I want Jo's body," he demanded, planting his feet on the ground and fixing the man in the suit with a determined stare.

God shrugged, smirking. "That much is obvious," he said. "We're in your head, Dean."

Dean nodded, ignoring the innuendo although that was true as well, and said, "How do I get it?" He was prepared to do anything, _kill_ anything.

"You already have it," God replied, gazing at Dean as if he knew all the secrets of the universe…and technically, he did, didn't he? Dean's eyebrows furrowed at the thought, and he hated the way God's eyes gleamed with knowledge.

Dean's brain clicked at the response and he said, "Cas."

God's head dipped in one slow nod, beard and glasses looking so out of place on such a tiny man. "Go. Run back to Earth before your brothers forget your existence."

Dean shook his head as if to clear his thoughts, and when he looked back to God, the man had disappeared. Spinning, Dean's eyes wildly searched for Jo, but she had left as well. His shoulders slumped, and he noticed that he was now standing in the ghost town that Sam had been taken to, all those years ago.

"Sam?" he called out of habit, or instinct, or habit. "Sam, you here?"

"I'm here," Sam called, but it was a distant, muffled voice.

Dean tried to locate his brother, glancing around himself and raising his hands to his gun, holstered to his side like some western novel. His eyes felt bleary and then he was being shaken, as if a ghost was pushing him and pushing him until he fell backwards, floating in midair for what seemed like ages, before falling back into his _own_ body, in another hotel in another city, and awakening with a jolt.

"I'm here," Sam said from his side, his hand on Dean's shoulder. "You were saying my name in your sleep."

Dean sat up, slightly embarrassed. "What else did I say?"

"Jo."

He nodded, rubbing his temples with his fingers. "What time is it?"

"Seven in the morning. Cas isn't back yet," Sam said carefully, not sure how much longer Dean would be patient.

"He'll be back today," Dean said with a nod. At Sam's confused eyebrow, he said, "Let's just say I had a prophetic dream."

* * *

Castiel appeared around two in the afternoon, looking breathless but not panting. His wide blue eyes found Dean's narrow green ones instantly, and he said in his gruff voice, "You went to see God. In Heaven."

Dean, who had been watching television, stared at him for a moment, and Sam, who had been looking up nearby occurrences on his computer, stared at Dean. "Dean?" Sam asked in a tone that was somewhere between _oh god what have you done_ and _explain yourself._ Sam recalled that Dean had said he'd had a prophetic dream. "This morning?" he questioned.

The older Winchester's mouth had been parted slightly, but now it closed and the corners pointed down as he shrugged. "I thought it was just a dream. But yeah, uh, I guess I did talk to God this morning – or last night."

Castiel nodded, a faint smile growing on his face. "Well, we have God's blessing. I don't suppose he told you that."

Dean shook his head. "And you have the…body?" he asked, looking away towards the wall and focusing on the ugly painting that hung over Sam's bed. _Don't get emotional, Dean, you're working._

"All ready, when you're ready," Castiel replied. "I, uh, found a coffin for her." He rubbed his hands together as if he were preparing himself.

Dean nodded, blinking. "Well, now's good." He found himself short of breath, as if the promise of having her returned to him had come too quickly and knocked the air out of him. He stood too quickly and the blood rushed to his head, but he didn't care because he was heading straight for Castiel. "Where is she?" he asked, rubbing his hands together anxiously.

Sam's cell phone rang. Two pairs of eyes turned to the younger Winchester as he pulled out his cell phone, checked the caller ID, then flipped it open and held it to his ear. "Garth," he said. "Uh, hi. What's up?"

Brow furrowing, Dean crossed his arms and turned towards his brother, watching Sam's expression change from confused to amused to troubled.

Sam nodded in agreement to something Garth said, eyeing his brother and shrugging. "Yeah, uh, we're in Colorado. Aspen. Yeah, yeah. No, we're not hunting. Okay yes, we're always hunting, but not right this second. No. We're resurrecting somebody. Did Bobby ever tell you about a family named Harvelle? Yeah, the daughter. Jo Harvelle. Yeah. Okay. Thanks, bye."

He closed the phone, sighing heavily. "He's in Nebraska. There's some werewolf running rampant and he doesn't think he's capable of…Garthing it without some backup."

"Meaning you and me," Dean said. "I'll do it. How long can he wait?" Garth was a good guy. Weird, but good. Not the type Dean would've pegged for a hunter, but he got the job done and did it well.

"He's going out again tonight," Sam replied.

Dean checked the clock that sat on the night table, giving a small, patterned _tick tock_. Nodding, he said, "Well, let's get this show on the road, then. We only have 'til midnight. Ten hours to drive there and get ready…yeah."

They brought the coffin into the room and rested it on the floor, and Sam stood behind Dean as Dean sat on the floor, leaning over it. Opening the coffin, Dean looked at the pale, unmoving body that God had so wonderfully restored. Taking her hand in his, he allowed tears to roll down his cheeks before inconspicuously scrubbing them away. He remembered clawing his way out of his grave and gripped her hand tightly, hoping that even in Hell, she would feel it and realize she was going to be okay.

"So it's now or never, huh?" Sam asked quietly, dipping his head down and shoving his phone back in his pocket. "I feel like it's not gonna work, Dean."

Dean turned around and clapped him on the foot. "We've got God's blessing, Sam. This has to work. It's about time you had a little faith."

* * *

The criss-crossed iron of the rack pressed against her chest and her stomach, searing into her flesh even though she technically didn't have a body. She felt the pain, the scorching, scalding metal digging and burning into her shoulders and breasts, making the skin below her belly button seem to sizzle. The tops of her thighs burned and her knees were good and charred, and she smelled the horrendous scent of burning flesh all around her, rising up in black smoke and putrid steam.

She screamed so hard her throat hurt, screamed until it was raw and she tasted blood. When she lost the energy to scream, she whimpered hoarsely, wailing and thrashing against the chains that bound her to the rack, splaying her arms and legs out and away from each other like an 'X'.

Resting her cheek against the hot iron, she spit blood through an opening in the criss-crosses of the rack, watching it bubble on the red-brown ground below her. Her back was exposed and the welts opened and closed with every breath that heaved through her body. She felt something tighten around her right hand, like another hand gripping hers, but when she looked, nothing was there.

Another lash came and lit her entire being on fire; she clawed at the metal and let out another ear-splitting screech, her eyes reflecting the flames of Hell that appeared when her nerve endings screamed. Hot tears rolled down her cheeks and she tasted blood again, this time from having been hit so hard that her teeth had clacked and she'd bitten her tongue.

After Osiris' failed stint, her soul had been cast into Hell, supposedly by Osiris himself merely out of spite. She didn't remember where she had roamed before; it had been too long. She was whipped again and her vision went white before fading back into red. Every day, she was hit one more time than the day before, if they could be considered days. The worst days were when she lost count of the lashes.

Her forehead was surely black from being scorched against the iron for so long; her wrists were bleeding and so were her ankles. Her entire back was weeping blood, and it seeped past her bottom and down the backs of her thighs, red-hot as if she were roasting from the inside. Feeling herself go faint, she wondered if today she might die – really _die_ – and escape everything for good. It was a nice fantasy, one that flooded her mind when she lost all of her senses on the rack.

She drifted away into her fantasy, her throat whipping out bloodcurdling cries every time she was struck. Her body seemed to be on autopilot, primal and terrified. She'd soiled herself so many times on the rack, and others had too, that it smelled revolting aside from the smell of burnt flesh.

Slowly, starting at a barely-audible whisper and then rising in a crescendo, she heard a lullaby begin playing, somewhere distant. Raising her head with her ears switching to only the lullaby's frequency, she found the melody and listened to it. It sounded like a church's choir, young male sopranos singing out in a heavenly chorus.

Frowning, she tried to turn her head but the whip nearly struck her neck; flinching, she cowered against the rack and wailed. The chorus grew louder, as if she were sitting in the church pews while the boys were practicing their songs; they sang out, the most beautiful song she'd ever heard. Gasping, her tears turned cold and she cried heavily, listening carefully as music joined the voices; an orchestra full of violins passionately hitting high notes, dramatic and euphoric and wondrous.

She lifted her head again and her ears began to bleed. Her mind would not let go of the song. She stared up at the dark red-orange clouds above her, tears streaming down her face, her neck, her chest. The crusted blood on her back cracked with her movement, and she felt her soul resonate so profoundly that her body was almost weakened beyond anything the whips could do.

Pushing herself upward, she felt her greasy, sweaty hair fall over one shoulder as she propped herself up against her palms, staring at the sky as if she were seeing Heaven. Her eyes widened and the blood vessels in them popped; like her ears, her eyes began to bleed as she searched the clouds, feeling the voices in the choir call her name.

Her pale face was wistful, and she was struck again, but she picked herself up again. The chorus was almost deafening; its loveliness seemingly only heard by her. The beauty of it erased all the other screams and cries around her, and she saw a light, like the sun, form in the clouds. Her heart leapt in her chest, and she wept so hard she shook.

She felt more than saw the hand as it came down; it was see-through but outlined by constellations, shimmering and strange. It was bigger than she was but she wasn't afraid; all fear abandoned her body as she welcomed it towards first she thought Death had come to greet her, but this was not how Death worked.

Closing her eyes, she felt the voices and the strings of the chorus reverberate in her bones, making her entire body vibrate, and her heart thrum with a beautiful sense of wholeness. The angels kept singing and her body felt pure again as the fingers of the giant hand closed around her, and as quickly as contact was made, her shackles shattered.

She smiled, tears shimmering in the hand's starlight, and she felt her soul lift with it as it ascended back into the heavens. Everything grew brighter and brighter, and she smiled so hard that the muscles in her face ached.

A quiet, low voice spoke above all the choirs and the orchestras, loud and melodic itself. "Joanna Harvelle," it murmured, lovely and adoring. "You are saved."


End file.
